


give me the worst of you to hold

by summerwoodsmoke



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon-Typical Royai, F/M, Post-Canon, riza has one night stands to deal with her feelings, this backfires spectacularly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 07:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerwoodsmoke/pseuds/summerwoodsmoke
Summary: She’s just being melodramatic again. She’s self-aware enough to realize that she tends to have sex when she wants to come down from feeling on edge or overwhelmed, and being in Ishval is perfect for stirring up those feelings. But she has to remind herself that no matter her own personal nightmares, Ishval is healing and moving on.A year after the eclipse, Mustang's unit travels to Ishval.For Riza, it's the worst sort of homecoming, and the strangest surprise.





	give me the worst of you to hold

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'life worth living' by laurel

Riza still has nightmares about that day. Horrible, gasping-awake nightmares that leave her clutching her throat, that have Black Hayate snuffling at her side, whining into her chest. Usually his cold nose on her skin is enough to ground her in the present and let her recognize that her throat isn't open and bleeding, just scarred and sore. She can lie down again and let her dog work his way between her arms. She never lets him start out the night on the bed, but he's an opportunistic little beast, knows he can get away with anything after a nightmare.

Riza draws him close and shoves her nose in his fur. _We're okay_ , she tells herself firmly. _We're okay._

The nightmares never leave the realm of her bedroom. As soon as she steps foot out the door, hair and uniform impeccable, she is no longer someone haunted by the past. She is simply Riza Hawkeye, a soldier dedicated to her country, her people, and her commanding officer.

 

* * *

 

The dust settles.

After considerable stints in the hospital following the eclipse, everyone finally gets to go home. Some officers are arrested, others are promoted. Scar disappears without any fuss. The Elrics go home at last.

Riza sends them off with a promise to keep in touch, but as the train pulls away, she murmurs to the Colonel, "I hope we don't see them for a good long time."

He gives her a quiet look, but says nothing beyond a soft hum of agreement.

_They deserve the kind of peace that we don't_ , she thinks. _We still have work to do._

 

* * *

 

Roy Mustang makes Brigadier General. Riza Hawkeye finds herself with the title of Major.

The names they call each other may change, but the feeling behind them doesn't.

Riza finds this both relieving and frustrating.

 

* * *

 

"Major," the General greets as he enters the office one morning. "Any news?"

"Yes, actually." She watches as he stops to listen. There's always news for a Brigadier General, but not often of this scale, not in an official capacity. She's curious as to how he'll react. "The Führer has requested a meeting with you for this afternoon."

His eyes light up, almost imperceptibly. Surprised, but excited. "I was supposed to meet with—"

"Already rescheduled," Riza answers.

He nods. "Anything else?"

Riza raises her eyebrows a bit. "Yes, I have a pile of paperwork needing your attention waiting for you on your desk. Since you'll be out all afternoon, it's the priority for the morning."

Lips pursed, he gives her a look. "Such an attentive Major," he grouses.

Riza smiles calmly. "Just doing my job, General."

 

* * *

 

Grumman is happy to see them, a mutual feeling, although Riza would be lying if she said she isn’t a bit cautious about why they’re here. She knows her grandfather better than that.

“Now, I know you’re doing good work here in Central,” he begins, walking around his desk to stand by them, “But I wondered if you might also take some of that good work on the road with you.”

“Sir?” the General asks, and if it was anyone other than Grumman and Riza, they might not’ve been able to tell how excited he was.

“There is a small, yet important ceremony happening in Ishval, the opening of a monastery. Or reopening, I suppose I should say. I’m needed in the capital for the next few weeks as we deal with an Aerugonian delegation, but you’ve led the charge on helping Ishval, so I will be sending you in my stead. Give us a good name, if you will.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” the General responds. Ishval is practically all he’s worked for since the eclipse, although he’s done almost all of it from Central. The chance to visit Ishval in an official, _peaceful_ capacity is huge. “I’ll do my best.”

 

* * *

 

The General keeps his eyes on the window the entire trip into Ishval. He makes a small noise the first time they pass the ruins of a town and Riza almost moves without thinking, an aborted attempt at comfort before she remembers herself, and where they are, their men around them.

“Back into the storm,” he murmurs for her ears alone. She swallows. They've never said it in so many words, but they both know the other has semi-regular nightmares, and Ishval has always been the root of those.

Wouldn't it be so easy, to find each other in the night? To bury her nose in his skin, to have him tell her they're okay while he hugs her close, runs his hands over her head, her hair, her back? Wouldn't it be kind? Good? _Better?_

The General sits up straight and adjusts his gloves—regular issue, not his alchemic ones. He refused to even bring a pair with them on this trip, not that he knows about the pair that she keeps in her bag for emergencies.

Ghola, the once-great capital of the district of Daliha, approaches in the window. Riza remembers the child she buried here, and the burning that followed. She knows what she and her General carry inside them. _Wouldn't it be good? Wouldn't it be better?_ Maybe. But maybe not.

And both of them have chosen something else anyhow. They've chosen _this_ , for better or worse.

 

* * *

 

The biggest surprise of their welcoming party turns out not to be people’s reactions to the General: they tend to be slightly fearful, angry, and cautious, all extremely understandable emotions.

No, the most surprising part is who is in their welcoming party: not one, but two familiar faces.

“You been slacking off down here?” Breda asks as he shakes Major Miles’ hand. Miles, they expected, as he’s been a part of Mustang’s unit since the eclipse—a trade, Armstrong said, for Falman. However, per Grumman’s orders, the Major had been the General’s most direct contact with Ishval, until now.

Miles snorts. He isn’t wearing his goggles anymore, letting his eyes show in a place where he won’t be judged for them. “I’ve been the one doing all the work, haven’t I?”

Who they didn’t expect to see was Scar, looking hale and hearty, albeit grumpy as ever. Riza, ahead of Breda, meets Scar’s eye and offers her hand to shake. The one he uses alchemy with, she notes as he shakes it.

“And what, Scar’s your buddy now?” Havoc asks from behind Breda. Riza exhales. The brash idiot. But Scar’s blankly calm expression doesn’t change; he merely blinks slowly, letting her hand go and moving on to Breda.

“I’ve been working here with Miles since that day,” Scar addresses them all. He doesn’t need to specify which day, but Riza notices her General’s eyes narrow at the thought of Scar having been here this whole time. That will come up later, she’s sure.

After the introductions at the train station are done, they're escorted to their hotel. They have some free time before the formal ‘receiving ceremony’ tonight, and then the reopening as well as a party tomorrow. The elder Ishvalan monks, priests, and leaders leave them to it, but Miles and Scar both stick around, surprisingly. The General leads the way to their rooms, Miles and the others swapping stories about Falman all the way up the stairs, fondly mocking their absent comrade, and Scar mostly just watches them, the same way she watches all of them, from behind.

He’s been growing his hair out, although he still keeps the sides shaved. It's long enough to flop over, and he valiantly tries to tie it back, but it’s not quite long enough for that yet. It makes her want to smile, but she doesn't. Once they reach the second floor, they split up to their rooms: the General in one, she in a second, and the rest of the men in a third. She unpacks in her room before wandering into the men’s, only to find them exactly how she left them, all busy ribbing each other and laughing. In a fit of playful pique, she nicks Havoc’s cigarettes from his bag and hides the pack in Fuery’s bedding, all without their noticing. _Idiots,_ she thinks warmly.

The General is standing in the doorway, now done in his own room, and she can see the barely suppressed sigh escape him at the sight of his unit. Everybody’s tensions are running a bit high though, especially with Scar’s unexpected presence, so she's not surprised when he doesn't say anything.

“You're going to get Fuery in trouble,” the General says quietly when she takes her place at his side. She smothers a smirk.

“I think he’ll be alright. He knows how to handle himself.”

“D’you think he'll just keep them hidden till we leave?” he asks.

Riza tilts her head. “I think he’ll shaft them onto Breda to escape blame.”

His lips twitch. “And you think he’ll be successful?”

“I’d bet on it,” Riza mutters, fighting back her own smile.

“Well then,” he says, and holds out his hand to her. She takes it, and is delighted to find that he's removed his gloves. They shake, both smirking now, and it isn't until Riza tucks her hands behind her back that she notices Miles and Scar watching her and the General. Miles instantly turns back to Havoc and his story, but Scar watches for one second longer, and Riza tries not to tense; she can't be sure that he's looking at the General’s hands, and she won't work up anything that shouldn’t be, not now when everything is so new and fragile.

They're only here for two nights. They should all be able to keep it together for that long.

 

* * *

 

That night, she stands beside the General as he formally greets the Ishvalan elders. Scar and Miles stand across from her, like halfway points for the Ishvalans and Amestrians to anchor themselves at. A glance around the room catches her eye on Scar, who is clearly looking in her direction. She stares back, but nothing in his disposition changes—

Which is when she realizes that it's not precisely her he is studying, but rather, her neck.

Riza flexes her shoulders uncomfortably. The uniform covers most of the scar, although the peak of it, the beginning point, is high enough that it shows above her collar.

After the formal greetings are done and the dignitaries are left to their own, slightly-less-formal devices, Riza gestures to Breda to take her place at the General’s back and walks over to the corner Scar is skulking in, unbuttoning the collars of her jacket and shirt as she goes.

"It's been awhile," she says in greeting once she stops before him. She pushes the last button out of the way and loosens her jacket so her neck is bare. "How are you?"

Scar seems shocked by her sudden appearance, if his barely widened eyes and tight grip on his glass are anything to go by. His eyes flick between her face and her neck multiple times before finally settling on her neck, thankfully taking the silently offered invitation.

"I'm fine," he replies. His voice is lower than she remembered, somehow. Without looking away, he sets his glass on a table behind him and slouches against the wall, assumedly to get a better viewing angle.

When did this become her life? Surely it wasn't always _quite_ this ridiculous. She tilts her head to the right.

"You aren't going to ask after my own wellbeing?" she asks pointedly after a minute of silence.

"You gave the answer before I could ask," he says.

"No, I saw the question." He finally looks up at that, meeting her eyes unthinkingly. "I'm fine," she continues matter-of-factly. "Thank you for asking."

She straightens and buttons her collars back up, and when he says nothing, assumes that is the end of it, and goes back to her General.

 

* * *

 

It's not the end of it.

They’re at the party, on their second and last night. All the high ranking officials and dignitaries, in Ishval's only government building so far, on the same street as their hotel. Most of the monks from the ceremony aren’t present—as Miles explains to them, certain orders of the Ishvalan religion are more reclusive than others, and so, the only order present at the party is that of the warrior monks, which includes Scar, or “the Brother,” as most Ishvalans seem to refer to him.

“He has no name?” she asks Miles quietly.

Miles shrugs. “No,” he says simply. “Names hold great meaning to Ishvalans, but the Brother forsook his birth name long ago, and refused to take it up again.”

“And then...he rejoined the monks…”

Miles nods to confirm her thought. “He’s said the same thing since the Promised Day,” he says. “‘Call me whatever you like’. It's just easiest for most of us to call him Brother.”

“Mm.” Riza takes a sip of her drink. “‘Whatever you like’? So he really won't get mad at Havoc for calling him Scar still?”

Miles huffs a laugh. “Hawkeye, you're placing a lot more faith in me than I deserve if you think I know what's going on in that head.”

Riza scowls a bit before rolling her eyes. “You need to work on your people skills, Miles.”

“Somehow, I don't think insisting on learning people’s most private thoughts is a well-respected social skill.”

She levels him with a look. “Not _those_ people skills.”

She leaves him to it, returning to her General to spell Fuery for a bit. “Don't go beyond tipsy,” she says, a hand on his arm as he leaves. “We all have one more shift.”

Not long after she's joined him, the General tracks down Scar. This will be their first direct, personal conversation since...since Envy, probably, and she's not surprised that she's a part of it now. She rolls her shoulders once, self-conscious about her scar. She and Scar haven't talked since last night either, although they have made scattered, awkward eye contact throughout the day.

“Ishvalan,” Mustang addresses him as they approach.

“Dog,” Scar replies, and Mustang scowls. Riza catches the barest glance Scar gives her before he focuses on the General again, and feels her neck tingle.

“You said you've been here since that day. What happened to you after?”

Scar stares at him a moment before speaking. “I healed in the Armstrong mansion. The General and Miles offered me a chance to work for my people, and I took them up on it. I didn't realize you hadn't been told, Armstrong seemed thrilled about it.”

“I bet she did,” the General mutters under his breath. It's admittedly obvious in hindsight who would arrange for Scar to be healthy and whole and a pain in Mustang’s side.

After a minute, Scar says, “We both know it's not you I’m here for.”

“No, I’m not here for me either,” the General replies, shaking his head. Then he pauses, looking up at Scar. “Despite it all, I think I’m almost glad to see you, Scar.”

Scar doesn't react to the name beyond a bit of a smirk. “I can't say the same, Alchemist,” is all he says before walking away. Mustang grumbles but turns to watch him go.

“I’m going to kill Armstrong,” he says to her. He's standing right beside her from having shifted, and the arms of their jackets rub against each other.

“No you're not.”

“No,” he exhales, “But I _am_ going to write a very strongly worded letter and never send it.”

“Mm.” Riza nods. “That sounds more accurate.”

The General meets her eye. “Major, you're not very nice,” he quietly complains.

“You don't keep me around because I’m nice.” She raises an eyebrow, then takes one step backwards to stand behind him again. He snorts a bit, but gets back to the party.

Not long after, Havoc relieves her, looking as antsy as he has all day. “Feeling alright?” Riza asks innocently.

Havoc’s fingers are twitching. “Can't find my smokes, and nobody seems to sell them here.” He groans and looks at her. “You don't have any, do you?”

“I’m not even going to answer that,” she says, then gives the General one last look. His eyes are laughing, as she's sure hers are.

She turns away and heads off to find some food, but she can hear the General pat Havoc’s arm, hear him say, “I’m sure they’ll turn up,” and she smirks. Fuery doesn't have long to make the switch now, if Riza wants to win their bet, but she's not worried.

Although that was her last shift at the General’s side for the night, she knows she’ll stay at the party as long as he does, even if she’s bored. She always does, not that they’re dragged out to events such as this very often. Once she has her food, she finds a table against the wall, perfect for being able to keep most of the hall in her vision while she eats.

And so that’s where she’s sitting when Scar finds her.

He sits on the other side of the table, but turns his chair so it’s facing the rest of the room like hers. She doesn’t usually mind silence, especially considering what her and Mustang’s relationship is like, but after a few minutes in silence with Scar, she’s itching for any sort of conversation, or movement, or distraction. She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about yesterday, how she caught him watching, how he put down his drink without looking, because—because, what? Because he was so captivated by her neck? It sounds ridiculous when she phrases it like that, but she feels all tingly again, and has to resist the urge to take off her jacket. _Focus_. Distraction. Conversation.

She clears her throat. He looks at her. She picks a pastry off her plate and asks, “So, what’s in this?”

His brow furrows a bit, but he puts his arm up on the table. “A mix of steamed vegetables and spices. Some people cook them with meat, but these ones don’t have any.”

“Mm. How spicy?” Riza places it back on her plate and takes a sip of water. She doesn’t miss how closely he watches her every movement. Is he doing it on purpose? Is _she_?

“Not very, by Ishvalan standards. But I think you could handle it, Hawkeye.”

She places her glass down and meets his eye. “I know I can.”

Scar smirks— _smirks_ —and simply says, “I know.”

Riza tilts her head, but he doesn’t say anything else. His eyes wander down to the table between them. Worried he’ll return to people-watching, she thinks back to her conversation with Miles and bursts out, “Why are the other orders of your religion so different from yours?”

As far as holding his attention goes, the question is a success. He’s back to staring at her. “Excuse me?” he asks.

“Miles explained to me why the other monks left between the ceremony and the party. He said only the warrior monks’ order stayed.”

Scar narrows his eyes and mutters something under his breath. He turns in his seat: it still faces towards the party, but now he is facing her. He puts both arms on the table, folds them so the tattoos face her. “The other orders are more...reclusive.”

“Funny,” she deadpans, “That was exactly what Miles said.”

Scar mutters again, and she’s certain that time was a curse. “They’ve taken vows. To abstain from things like this.”

“Like?”

He lifts one of his forearms into the air. “ _This._ Frivolity. Worldliness.”

She supposes it makes sense. “But not your order?”

He shakes his head. “My order is probably the most rooted in physicality as opposed to spirituality.” He explains slowly, like he’s not used to saying so much at once. And frankly, this is the most Riza’s ever heard him say. “We spend as much time training and strengthening our physical bodies as we do our spirits, which isn’t something the other orders do. Also…”

Riza raises a brow, not that he sees, looking at the table like he is. “Also, you don’t take vows?” she guesses.

He nods, once. “Essentially,” he says rather quickly.

“What did you mean to say?”

He looks off to the side before looking up at her. “We do take vows, to Ishvala, to our brethren. But the other orders, they have vows that we don’t, vows of silence, poverty, chastity.”

_Oh._ Riza reflexively goes for her glass, but stops. No need to make a complete fool of herself. Scar stares at her hand, still on the table, halfway to her glass. Riza has the unmistakable urge, once again, to take off her jacket. But she feels hot, because it _is_ hot here, so that’s normal, right? Ishval cools down at night, but not enough.

“So, you’re saying, the vows your order takes are more...symbolic.”

He meets her eyes. “Essentially,” he repeats. His gaze feels like a brand on her face that she can’t escape, that she can’t bring herself to _want_ to escape. _Now you need distraction from the distraction. Unbelievable._

She looks down at her plate and picks up the only thing left now, the pastry from earlier. She bites the corner off and chews slowly. Exactly like he said, it’s spicy, but not overly so. She takes another bite before she gives in and looks back at him. He’s watching her so intensely, she almost wants to throw the pastry at him.

Riza finishes chewing, takes a sip of her water, and takes a breath. “You were concerned about my neck yesterday.” She doesn’t bother to phrase it as a question, although he has to answer it like one.

“Mm,” is all he says. She looks up from her glass and raises her brow. He exhales bodily, looking down at his arm. “I was curious to see how the scar healed, is all.”

“Of course,” she agrees readily, although she keeps watching him. The attention drawn to his right arm is inescapable, and she’s sure he knows there are few physical scars that are worse than his, but she supposes she understands the compulsion to cling to those who have the same damage as you; she supposes she, Mustang, and Hughes are as good an example of that as any.

But the way he stared with such singular focus, even after it was freely offered to him; the way he put his glass down without turning away, like even one second less would be an immeasurable loss…

“And how long have you been...concerned, then?” she asks unassumingly. She shifts her gaze from his scarred arm to his scarred face, then to his red eyes.

He doesn’t answer; of course he doesn’t. But he doesn’t look away either, so although her question is met with silence, she feels like she’s receiving an answer all the same.

She remembers the look he gave her on the day of the eclipse, after she thanked him for bringing the General back to her. She remembers the way he looked at her neck yesterday, the way his eyes traced her scar. She decides, if she deserves anything, it's at least this.

At least.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night,” she says, not breaking eye contact. He stays focused on her, but he leans back a bit, like he’s preparing to let her go. She stands slowly, still watching him. “Aren’t you coming?”

She can see the exact moment it sinks in: his eyes widen, just a bit, but when she continues to wait, he stands as well. And wordlessly, they leave together.

 

* * *

 

As soon as they’re in her room, the door locked behind them, she unbuttons her military jacket and tosses it on the corner chair. She’s wearing a white cotton shirt underneath, as opposed to her regular black polo neck, because Ishval’s too hot for anything else. Scar helps himself to her shirt buttons, but he stops after just a few, to her surprise, only to push the collar open and run his hand up her neck.

Her breath catches in her throat; his hand stills, but he rubs his thumb slowly, lengthwise across her scar. She rests one of her hands atop his: to stop him or encourage him, she isn’t sure, but he stops, shifts his gaze from her neck to her face, and waits. She feels like she's shaking, like the only thing anchoring her is his thumb on her scar.

(And she doesn't want to, but for a split second, she thinks of how she got the scar, she thinks of that underground cavern where Ed disappeared before their very eyes, where she held her own bleeding neck closed, felt the pulse of her blood beating out beneath her fingers, looked her Colonel in the eye and made sure he _wouldn’t_ do the unthinkable, not even for her, _not even for her,_ but she’s not there now, and she doesn’t want to think about the General at the moment, she needs to just be _here_ , in a stuffy hotel room in Ishval. Shivering at the touch of a man she once tried to hunt down and kill.)

She meets his eye, and she has a feeling that he somehow knows what she’s thinking. He’s still waiting— _what do you choose, Riza? Are you here, are you now?_

Yes, she decides, looking up at his red eyes. She is choosing this, as she slides her hand off of his, and up towards his neck. She is here as she pulls his head down towards hers and presses her mouth against his.

Scar responds willingly, rubbing his thumb against her neck again before moving his hand to cradle the back of her head, tilting it back for him. His other arm slides around her waist to hold her in place, and her skin sets on fire wherever he touches. She leans into his arm, pulling her mouth away from his. She's breathing heavily, but so’s he. She licks her lips and moves her hands to his waist to undo his sash with shaking hands. For a second, wildly, she thinks _vow of chastity_ , and wants to laugh.

Once the sash is off, thrown to the same chair as her coat, he takes over with his robes while she finishes getting rid of her shirt. Their harsh exhales and the soft rustle of cloth are the only sounds in the room. The muscles of his arms move beneath his tattoos when he rolls his shoulders back to remove his robe; her shirt hanging off one arm, Riza grabs Scar’s chin and kisses him, open-mouthed and fast, before pulling back again.

The rest of their clothes end up on the floor. She's still in her underclothes—shirt and bottoms—when he returns to her, wrapping both hands around her waist to pull her against him. His chest, at her eye level, is bare; she can't help but lay her lips on it, once, twice, while he takes her hair out of its hold. It falls in a spill down her back—she imagines she won't have the opportunity to brush it out tonight—and he lets his fingers tangle through it. He pulls gently, and she gets the message, leaning her head back to let their lips meet again, and again, and again.

 

* * *

 

They both wake up before the sun rises. Her train back to Central leaves at nine, and the Ishvalans are seeing them off from the station, not the hotel, so Scar has to leave the building without anybody spotting him.

This all goes without saying, so the room is rather quiet while they get dressed, and Riza even begins to hope that the men are all still asleep, and Scar won’t have any trouble leaving. Just as she goes to unlock her door, however, a voice yells and breaks the silence, making Riza and Scar flinch full-bodied.

“BREDA! DID YOU HAVE MY SMOKES _THIS WHOLE TIME_?!”

“Shoot,” Riza whispers. She may have just won her bet, but why couldn’t they have waited just half an hour more? Now the whole floor was undoubtedly awake.

“I never touched your dirty cigs, Havoc!” Breda’s voice, while not as loud or hoarse as Havoc’s, still pierces through the wall. Riza turns to face Scar, grimacing.

“YOU KNOW I HAVE BEEN SUFFERING, HERE, _HEYMANS_.”

“ _Hey_!”

“NEXT TIME, JUST TELL ME TO GO OUTSIDE IF YOU’RE SO SICK OF THE SMELL.”

“I can go out the window,” Scar says. Riza looks over at it. She would protest that they're on the second floor, but she has a bad habit of making acquaintance with irresponsible risk-takers.

“YOU SMELL LIKE SMOKE ALL OF THE TIME, HAVOC, YOU SMOKING OUTSIDE WON’T CHANGE THAT.”

“If you’re sure,” is all she says. He nods, and without another word, pops the window open and drops down to the street. Riza closes the window behind him, watches him lope down the street, and then, with Havoc’s voice still occupying every possible space around her, drops her head into her hands.

 

* * *

 

The General wordlessly hands her a 1000 cenz note when they meet in the hallway. He looks frazzled, but she won’t dare point that out, on this morning. She pockets the money and follows him out into the sunlight. She knows Scar will be there, and she knows they’ll both be fine, but that doesn’t stop her body from raising her pulse or making her sweat. Riza blames it on the sun and tells herself that, at most, they’ll just have to make eye contact and maybe shake hands once more. And then she’ll be on her way home. They’ll be fine.

 

* * *

 

They don’t even make eye contact. _Worried for nothing_ , Riza thinks.

 

* * *

 

The train is halfway back to Central when it truly and fully hits Riza. _She slept with Scar_.

She staggers to her feet so suddenly, all the men in the car, including the General, turn to stare. She mutters something about water before walking out, car after car, until she's hit the back and is vomiting over the car’s railing onto the blurred track beneath them.

_So dramatic_ , she thinks wryly, and wipes her chin. It's not the end of the world. People have sex. She has sex. The General had been mere feet away in the next room, yes, and that wasn't normal of her...dalliances, but regardless. Why is she reacting like this?

_You know why_. Of course she does. It would be foolishness to act like she didn't, but Riza so wishes she could, at least for the rest of the train ride home.

Scar. Of all the people in the country, in the _world_ —and it had to be him. She never made her life easy for herself, did she.

After a minute longer out in the air, Riza turns to go in and actually find some water.

Back in their car, she gets a few odd and concerned looks, but everyone sticks to their own conversations. Taking her seat next to the General, she nearly jumps out of her skin when he shifts his thigh to press against her own.

“R’you alright?” he murmurs. Neither of them are looking at each other; Riza keeps her eyes on Fuery’s boots across from her own. The rattle of the train covers his voice. Nothing out of the ordinary for their men to notice.

She nods slowly. “I’m just ready to go home,” she replies. “To...leave Ishval behind, at least for now.”

His thigh presses a bit harder for a second. “We’ll be okay, Major.”

Riza nods again. Her leg is burning where he touches it, is burning where _he_ touched it. She inhales long and loud, and vows to put the whole experience away in her mind. Like it never even happened. She exhales, and she is here, in this moment, a Major with her General, and nothing more.

 

* * *

 

“So, how was Ishval?” Rebecca puts down her spoon and takes a sip of her coffee. Black Hayate pants under the table, and Riza is picking at a muffin. The sky is out and the sun is warm, but it’s not so hot that she can’t get away with wearing a black polo underneath her jacket.

It's good to be back in Central.

Riza shrugs. “Dry and hot. How was Black Hayate?”

Rebecca scoffs and leans down to give him a pat on the head. “An angel. You trained him so well!”

“Of course I did,” Riza smirks.

“Despite what you say, however, he’s not the _perfect man_ , and so I am, sadly, still looking. I thought Central would have better options, but no!” Rebecca pauses to take another sip and give Riza a look. “Meet any nice guys in Ishval, by any chance?”

Riza’s hand jerks and muffin crumbs go flying. Black Hayate instantly licks the crumbs off her boots, to her annoyance, but she doesn’t stop him.

“Well, I’ll take _that_ as a yes,” Rebecca says, her voice warm with amusement. “I meant for me, but do spill, Riza.”

Riza wipes her hands on a napkin to hide their shaking. She’d really rather not, but she knows Rebecca better than that. “It was nothing serious, just a one time thing. Someone I met at the party on the last night.” She lies on the barest off-chance that Rebecca talks to anyone else on her unit, not that she really thinks Rebecca would gossip about her to her coworkers, but she’d rather be extremely safe than sorry.

“Ishvalan?” Rebecca asks, eyes wide and bright. Riza can feel her cheeks heat, but she nods, and Rebecca squeals a bit before getting herself under control. She pats Riza’s hand comfortingly and says, “You deserve a nice break every now and then, Riza, don’t pretend like you don’t. We all know that General of yours runs you ragged.”

Black Hayate barks once and Riza moves her boot to gently pet him with it. “And what about you? The Führer doesn’t run you ragged?”

Rebecca snorts into her cup. “I barely see him at all anymore. He’s got all his fancy bodyguards and fancy secretaries.” She shrugs. “Which is fine with me. I’m glad you’re back now, though.”

Riza forces a smile onto her face. “Believe me, so am I.”

 

* * *

 

In the days following the eclipse, the slow re-piecing together of Amestris and its capital, Riza was exhausted. They all were. After months of buildup and anticipation, going straight to work was a good way to burn off energy, but it was also tiring. After one particularly late-night meeting, a mix of officers had gone to a bar together, which is how Riza met Cutter. She was usually averse to having _encounters_ with other military personnel, but Cutter was stationed at Briggs, and just as loyal as the rest of the men there, thus very unlikely to transfer to anywhere Riza was planning to work. So she took him home that night.

Cutter didn’t say a word about her scarred back the entire night, and she didn’t love him, but she was unendingly grateful to him for that. He’d had his own scars: nicks and slices on his hands and arms, one or two on his torso. He was gentle around her bandaged neck; he was gentle with her altogether, really. They never saw each other after that, and she hadn’t heard from him in the full year since then, but she never forgot his non-reaction to her back.

It hadn’t been like that with Scar.

With Scar, she’d been so focused on staying in the moment, she had forgotten to even be self-conscious about it. He’d been lying on her bed, underneath her, working her undershirt up along her sides before she finally sat up and tore it off. For a few blissful seconds, she’d simply leaned back down and gone back to kissing him, letting his hands roam where they may, until they stopped cold on her back, and she remembered.

Cutter didn’t know her whole history. Cutter knew the basics, and he didn’t ask questions. He had his own scars, his own demons, and Riza didn’t have to share hers.

But Scar already knew her demons. And Scar could tell she had burn marks on her back.

“Hawkeye,” he’d rumbled in question, and she’d rolled her shoulders, his hand shifting with the movement.

She’d met his eye and said simply, “I told him to.”

She could tell from his demeanor that she’d probably created more questions than she’d answered, but that whole night had seemed to be about her choices for him, so he’d dropped it, thankfully. With any luck, that was a conversation she wouldn’t ever need to have.

 

* * *

 

Riza stands in the Führer’s office a step behind the General. She knows she should be attentive, to the two men’s conversation, to her surroundings, to the possibility of danger, even here, even now, but all she can focus on is the pounding of her own heart in her ears. She has a feeling about why they’ve been called here, and she’s desperately hoping she’s wrong. _Focus_.

“Well, I think you’ve been in Central long enough, don’t you?” Grumman says, leaning back in his chair with a twinkle in his eye.

Riza’s heart sinks. It’s been months since their trip to Ishval. Black Hayate still sneaks into her bed when she wakes up from the occasional nightmare, and she still lets him. The way _Major_ leaves her General’s mouth is a promise, every time. They do the work needed to find peace, good work. But she shouldn’t be surprised her grandfather has other plans for them.

Neither of them need to hear it, but the General takes the bait anyway. “Whatever you think is best for us, sir.”

“Well, I think it’s about time you head back East, don’t you? You won’t be in charge, you’re a bit young for that,” his moustache twitches, “But you will be getting a promotion and working directly under Lieutenant General Browning.”

“Thank you, Führer,” the General says, almost fervently. Riza firmly does not think about the last time they were out East and instead considers this from his point of view. East City was where they both recovered and grew after Ishval. It’s where he and Grumman formed their relationship. And it’s closer to Ishval, which is still his main priority. East City may not be the grand assignment most Brigadier General’s would hope for, but she and Mustang have always had their own sort of goals.

Coming back to the moment, she sees her grandfather is watching her. Curious as to her reaction, she supposes. She gives him a nod, which he returns.

Grumman sits up and folds his hands together. “We’ll have your promotion ceremony in a week’s time, and you’ll be expected by Browning in two weeks.” He stands, smiling, and they both salute him. “We’ll have to play one last game of chess before you go.”

“Of course, sir. And thank you, again.”

 

* * *

 

The Brigadier General becomes a Major General. Rebecca Catalina is transferred to the Mustang unit effective immediately, per the Führer’s orders, although the General is pleased with the decision. Riza and her grandfather have a private farewell, and Black Hayate seems displeased with the packing up of their apartment. Mustang is clearly excited to see East City again, and it’s all Riza can do to act as though she feels the same.

All she can do is hope that Grumman and Browning rely on other officers to deal directly with Ishval.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like she regrets that night, or so she tells herself. Once again, their whole unit is travelling together by train, although this time Black Hayate is with them, much to Fuery and Rebecca’s delight—they keep him occupied by playing tug rope, and toss. Her General sits next to her as always, and she catches him smiling as he watches them play, which makes her chest ache in the most peculiar way.

No, she doesn't regret it. She just wishes her reality was different.

 

* * *

 

They've been in East City for little under a month when they get the assignment she's been expecting and dreading in equal measures.

“An Ishvalan ceremony again,” her General mutters at his desk. Most of his work with Ishval has been in the military and economic spheres, not the social or political ones. “Are they really that hard up for high ranking officers that they'll keep sending the Flame Alchemist to make pretty peace in Ishval?”

“You don't think that's _why_ they're sending you?” Havoc asks from across the room. Riza glares a little, but she can't say it's not something she's wondered herself.

The General exhales noisily. “Maybe so. Regardless, we’re expected tomorrow, so spend tonight packing. Plan for a week.” He drops the message from Browning on his desk and Riza pushes away the urge to snatch it up and read it herself.

They can handle a week. She can handle a week.

 

* * *

 

She waffles over her packing much longer than she should, not that she'd ever admit her difficulties in choosing which underclothes to bring to anyone in a million years.

The train ride from East City to Ghola is much shorter than it is from Central, which gives Riza less time to panic. Of course, the downside is, before she knows it, privates and station attendants alike are carrying their bags to their hotel and they're all standing in a line, shaking the hands of the Ishvalan dignitaries, including Miles and Scar.

Scar’s handshake is no different from any other, but their eye contact is longer than it should be. His eyes hold her steady, and they stay with her long after he's let go, and long after she's moved along the line.

She can’t help but wonder how the parties they’re required to attend will play out this time.

 

* * *

 

The reason they’re in Ghola is for the inauguration of a new mayor. The inauguration itself is happening on the fourth day of their visit, but in the meantime, the General has a lot of meetings he’s expected to be at. Usually, Riza would be there with him through it all, but Rebecca being part of their unit has changed that: on the second day, Rebecca proclaims that she’s bored and is taking Riza out for the afternoon.

“Fuery can take notes or whatever it is you do in there.”

“I’m not in there to take notes, Rebecca.”

“Well, then, Havoc can stand behind him looking pretty just as well as anybody.”

Riza sighs and rubs her forehead. “Fine, fine, I’ll go tell the General.”

“Yes!” Rebecca proclaims quietly, pumping her fist while Riza walks off, shaking her head. It’s not that she doesn’t mind the break, (and she really doesn’t, the meetings do get quite dry) but it still feels _odd_ to be an adjutant and be skipping out on administrative duties.

The General waves her off almost as soon as she opens her mouth. Smiling a bit, he says, “I can get one of the men to go with me. Catalina’s right, you deserve a break, and at least one of us can escape these meetings.”

Riza nods. “Well. Take whoever’s annoying you most today, then.” He smirks at that, and she adds, “And...I’ll see you tonight, sir.”

He watches her for a second. “Of course, Major.”

The streets of Ghola are crowded in a pleasant, lively way. The air is heavy with heat and spice, and every building and stall create a riot of colour. Rebecca converses with Riza and the locals alike, asking for opinions on garments and trinkets and food. Riza feels...incredibly out of place, experiencing Ishval like...like a _tourist_ , but she tries to follow her friend’s lead. She can actually offer some opinions on some of the foods they encounter, having tried them the last time she was here, and when Rebecca points at a tray of familiar-looking pastries, Riza licks her lips.

“Yes, I’ve had them,” she replies to her friend. She blinks and turns to face Rebecca. “They’re spicy, but they can have different fillings. Ask him what’s in them before you buy any.”

Rebecca stares at her before nodding and turning to the baker running the stall. Riza sighs and cricks her neck from one side to the other. She hasn’t seen Scar since they were received yesterday; Miles is much more involved in politics than he is, it seems. And she’s been trying to just relax here with Rebecca today, but she can’t forget about the fact that they’re meant to attend a party at the forthcoming mayor’s house tonight, and that Scar will undoubtedly be there.

Riza looks out across the street, watches a mother with a baby slung across her back buy fruit, watches two street kids run out of a pub giggling, the barkeep yelling from the doorway. A man with a stall selling spices wipes his arm across his forehead between pouring the bright colours into bags. The city is alive. Riza squints as the sun comes out from behind a cloud and turns back to Rebecca, who is now flirting with the flustered baker. Riza laughs and steps forward to help the poor man, mentally chastising herself as she does.

She’s just being melodramatic again. She’s self-aware enough to realize that she tends to have sex when she wants to come down from feeling on edge or overwhelmed, and being in Ishval is perfect for stirring up those feelings. But she has to remind herself that no matter her own personal nightmares, Ishval is healing and moving on.

Riza hooks her hand into Rebecca’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” she says to the baker, pulling Rebecca away. “Please excuse her.”

“Thank you so much for your help!” Rebecca manages to say before surrendering to Riza with a laugh, walking away with her in step. “He said they have lamb in them, so I bought three.” She unwraps her paper package and hands a pastry to Riza. “And then I tried to get a fourth at a discount.”

Riza snorts but takes the pastry. They walk past an outdoor cafe, and the mother she saw earlier is now seated at a table, breastfeeding. Her baby looks sleepy and content, not a care in the world.

Rebecca takes a bite of her pastry and moans. “Worth the try.” Then with an elbow nudge and a sidelong gaze, she drawls, “Soooo. Are you planning on seeing your Ishvalan this week?”

Riza takes a bite of her own and tries not to blush. “The opposite, actually,” she replies after swallowing. She snags a napkin from Rebecca’s wrapping and folds up her remaining pastry.

“What! Why not?”

_Because I cannot handle having the General and Scar that close in my mind again,_ she thinks to herself. Out loud she says, “You do remember that we’re sharing a room, yes?”

“Ugh!” Rebecca lets her head fall back. “I can’t believe we’re each other’s spoilsports.”

Riza shakes her head. “We’re here for one week. I thought you were looking for something more...long term.”

“Of course I am, but like you said, we’re only here for a week.” Rebecca shrugs, smirking. “Might as well take a page out of your book. How about this: you get the room tonight, and I get it tomorrow night.”

Riza elbows her laughing friend. “Not a chance.” She wants to laugh at Rebecca’s ridiculousness, but she doesn’t want to encourage her. “If you’re not in your bed tonight, I’ll write you up.”

“You wouldn’t!” Rebecca gasps in faux horror.

“See that I won’t!”

Rebecca links arms with her, laughing once again, and leads the way down the Gholan street.

 

* * *

 

They don’t address each other directly beyond public pleasantries. They skirt around each other, like magnets with the same polarity. When Riza is on her own time at the party, she eats alone. Rebecca forces her to dance with a councilman whose smile shows all his teeth.

The councilman leads them all around the dancefloor, which Riza can’t say thrills her. She feels like she’s on display; her neck tingles. She also feels odd, dancing like a high society lady when she’s so clearly no more than a soldier.

Her partner spins her: one turn shows her the General with the mayor’s daughter; another turn, Rebecca dancing with an attractive young man; another turn, and she sees Scar and Miles at the edge of the room.

It’s just a flash, just a split second during a turn, but she could’ve sworn she met his eye.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think, Major?” Mustang asks. Riza turns to see him standing in her doorway, wearing his dress uniform, holding out his arms to show it off. He hates the dress uniform, rarely wears it even for state functions, but she’s pretty sure Browning specifically told him to bring it this week. This is his sixth time wearing it since they got here, and the last, thankfully. One last party, at a councilman’s house, and then they can go home tomorrow.

Riza has to fight to keep from laughing.

“You know what I think, General,” she replies blandly, continuing to rifle through her drawer for a clean undershirt. “Fishing for compliments is never a good look.”

“Still? Even now?” he asks, exasperated.

She lets herself smile then. “And always, of course.”

He laughs a bit and drops his arms to his sides. “I never asked, but. How do you feel, being back here?” He says it sincerely.

Riza stiffens a bit, but turns to face him, abandoning her search. “Complicated, as I’m sure you do too, sir.” She drops her gaze to the floor, rubbing one of her thin cotton undershirts between her fingers. “But the only way to move is forward, and I refuse to stop.” She looks up at him. “I _want_ to make it through this. I want us both to.”

He nods at her. “I have faith in us, Major. We can do it.” He takes a few steps closer, and she drops her shirt back in its drawer. Much more quiet now, he says, looking into her eyes, “There’s nothing we’ve faced that we haven't been able to defeat together, after all. Right?”

Her heart swells. “Right,” she whispers.

* * *

 

Since Rebecca’s with the unit now—and because the General refuses to stay at these parties past midnight—they all only have one shift with him for the night.

And she’s first shift, which means she’s on her own time for the rest of the night after that.

And somehow, she ends up exactly where she promised herself she wouldn’t be.

Riza’s hands tighten on Scar’s shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. Her own harsh breathing is the only thing she can hear in Scar’s dark bedroom.

There’s an ache in her jaw, an ache somehow brought on by his ministrations to her neck—tasting, biting, kissing—and the combination of the two makes her feel lightheaded. Scar’s thighs lift a bit, tilting her forward on his lap. She lets her forehead fall against his shoulder and answers his silent request by sliding her body forward until their torsos touch.

Head on his shoulder, breathing through her mouth, Riza can barely think straight. She moves one of her hands to his hair—longer than it was the last time she was here, long enough to tie up a bit easier, but not tied up right now—and tugs. Enough with her neck. She feels so overstimulated there she could scream.

_You have me where you want me_ , she thinks, and moves her hips a bit closer to make sure he gets the message. _Now it’s my turn_. She pulls again, harder this time, and she can feel his grumble in her chest, but his head tilts back. She pulls until she can see his lips and presses her own open mouth against them.

_Now it’s my turn._

* * *

 

The bright side is, she doesn’t throw up on the way home this time.

The downside is the funny looks Rebecca tries to give her all day. Her friend had tried to interrogate her when she showed up in their room before dawn, but Riza had just shushed her and packed her things in silence. Riza prays Rebecca will keep her mouth shut about it until they’re alone, at the very least, and keeps her gaze on the paperwork she’s going over with the General. His voice is a low hum in her ears, and it shouldn’t soothe her, but it does. _Nothing we can’t face together._ Riza wishes for nothing more.

“Can you come with me to the office when we get back to East City?” he asks, frustrated by the many different piles of paper he has.

Riza purses her lips to keep from laughing. If she starts, she’s not sure she’ll ever stop. “Of course, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are much loved
> 
> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/alinastarkovas) or on [tumblr](https://tanosoka.tumblr.com)


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